“Don’t tell me what to feel. All my fuckin’ life people have been telling me I do things wrong, I’m always the fucking asshole, and I look around and I see everyone else is infinitely more fucked-up than I am.” — Hank Moody (David Duchovny) in Californication

It was indeed an eventful weekend I had. Aside from Californication marathon, I was also able to spend quality “mall hours” with the two prettiest ladies in my life, Charmaine and Raven; restock my MP3 player with freshly downloaded shit from Dream Evil, Mercenary, Dragonforce, Iron Maiden, and Moonspell; trip on some jazz-rock courtesy of Steely Dan (again, thanks Don Robert); and catch up on my reading (juggling Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Margaret Atwood is crazy, but what the hell).

The years 2004 and 2005 were metal years for me. I got involved in NU 107’s Metal Madness (now history, but the noisiest shit on Philippine radio back then), and was frequenting those smoky Malate hellholes with then girlfriend Charmaine for our live metal fix. Except for our marriage and the birth of Raven Lee, none of the things that happened to us in the succeeding years can be compared to what transpired in those 24 months of beer-soaked heavy metal abandon. The only weird thing was my hair.

Elmore Leonard first knocked me out with Killshot, now a movie I am yet to see. Then it was Rum Punch, which Hollywood turned into Jackie Brown — the uber cool Samuel L. Jackson playing Ordell Robbie, saying, “My ass maybe dumb, but I ain’t no dumbass!”

After reading Get Shorty and getting floored by it, I am now officially considering myself a big Elmore Leonard fan. Meaning I will suck up anything this dude puts up, including grocery lists.

Which brings to mind a girl I had the pleasure of sharing an FX ride with in 2007. A young pretty thing in tennis shorts and ponytail, she had Pagan Babies on her delectable lap. The only unsightly thing was this gym-chiseled white arm wrapped around her shoulders. This metrosexual type dude I make for a StarStruck reject practically all over her. Some lucky asshole.

My ears highly trained on eavesdropping came to work.

“What’s that?” the bozo asked, fingering the dog-eared paperback. “The book I’m currently reading,” she said, sing-song voice and all. The guy made a face as if something squirmed in his ass. “I can’t stand books,” he said. “All those letters.” Said it just like that, the guy clueless — or perhaps proud — of what a dumb oversized cockroach he was. Nailing his coffin, he said: “I rather dance.”

H.I.M.’s Dark Light album was the last thing I expected to see when I went to Landmark in Makati last Friday on my way to Charmaine’s office, but there it was, staring back at me, enigmatic cover and all, promising late night “Vampire Heart” soundtrip.

I texted Charmaine about it. “Guess what . . .” In two minutes she was standing beside me going, “Oh my!” My wife, big Ville Vallo fan, not believing the H.I.M. album in front of her. “Santa’s a metalhead!,” she said. And my collection became one CD richer.

Addendum: Saw some interesting local releases from 3 Inches of Blood, Down, Cavalera Conspiracy, Still Remains, Dragonforce, Machine Head, Airborne, Cradle of Filth, etc . . . But at Php650 each I find them too outrageously priced for my malnourished wallet. I’m licking my lips at Slayer’s World Painted Blood, though, which is only Php390.